


Together, or Not at All

by Akiko_Natsuko



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Fête des Mousquetaires Challenge, Gen, Hurt Athos, Hurt Porthos, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Rescue, Rescue Missions, Serious Injuries, prompt: fall, rescue gone wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26452600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/Akiko_Natsuko
Summary: Another day gone. Another day with no word or sign of the others, for which he finds himself alternating between relief that they are not here to endure this hell with him and despair. Not at being alone, for all that it is a strange experience after so long spent with them, but for the thought that he might not see them again. That he might not get to say farewell, for that is the only outcome that he can see as the days trickle by.The arrival of the others brings hope and the promise of rescue, but at what cost?Written for the September Fête des Mousquetaires, prompt: Fall
Comments: 16
Kudos: 61
Collections: Fête des Mousquetaires





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first entry for Fête des Mousquetaires, Chapter 2 will be up tomorrow.
> 
> Please note that if you want to talk to me about my fics and writing, or anime/shows/games in general then you can now find me on discord [The Unholy Trinity](https://discord.gg/rYuEH6EAY2).

Athos can just about see the sky from where he is slumped against the wall. It’s growing dark, evening blue giving way to inky darkness, and there’s a single, solitary star already visible against the darkening sky. Another day gone. Another day with no word or sign of the others, for which he finds himself alternating between relief that they are not here to endure this hell with him and despair. Not at being alone, for all that it is a strange experience after so long spent with them, but for the thought that he might not see them again. That he might not get to say farewell, for that is the only outcome that he can see as the days trickle by, slow and too quick in equal measure until he’s lost all sense of how long he has been here. How long he has endured to reach this point of breaking? It’s probably better that he doesn’t know, but the not knowing leaves him more adrift than ever.

The star twinkles, a tantalising, mocking glimpse of freedom, and he tears his gaze away from it, away from the tiny square that is his only window on the world beyond his prison. Even the door is solid wood, stopping him from seeing who is coming and muffling any sound of approach, and more than once he’s been caught by surprise because of it. Another weapon for the Spanish to use against him. Not that they’ve got any shortage of tools to prolong his torment, the proof of it written across his body.

They had not been merciful.

His head throbbed in time with his heart, a combination of exhaustion, thirst and far too many blows to the head taking its toll. The vision in his left eye is blurred, and he’d taken to keeping it shut, trying to avoid the disturbing sight of everything being multiplied by two, and he’s not even sure he could open at this point, the skin swollen and blood caked across it. That had been the first injury, a blow from behind when he had been captured, and he knows that he should be worried by the lingering effects, but by now it’s melted into everything else, and there’s little that he can do about it. His arms are twisted behind his back and chained in place, even now when there’s no way he could escape even if the opportunity landed in his lap.

His arms ache, the unnatural position a constant torment, his skin torn and bloody from his earlier attempts to escape, and he doesn’t want to think about how deep some of the links feel now, as though they’re part of him. Of greater concern are the fingers on his right hand. That had been deliberate, and slow, each finger broken in turn beneath the grinding heel of the General, and the slightest movement now sends crippling pain through his hand, and he doesn’t know if it would be fixable even if Aramis was here to tell him. Fears it, because his fingers, his hand, his ability to wield his sword are everything to him and losing that. Losing the Musketeers is worse than anything the Spanish can inflict on him. They’d known it too, the wicked delight that had greeted his agony and anguish had told him that much, as had the threat that morning or had it been afternoon…to do the same to his other hand if he continued to be uncooperative.

He’d spat in the General’s face, more blood than anything else, distantly wondering if they’d broken something more serious inside when they’d beaten him that day but taking pleasure in the disgusted noise the other man had made. At least until he’d been slapped. A ring leaving a gouge across his cheek, and the impact reigniting the pain in his head, before he’d been left alone to ponder his fate.

He wouldn’t talk.

That had never been an option, and he was less inclined than ever to cooperate. He was many things, but a coward wasn’t one of them, they would hear no secrets, no information that could be weaponised against his friends, against his country from his lips as long as he drew breath. And once he didn’t, then there was no need to concern himself with it, and as his breathing hitched, the throbbing no longer just in his head, but seeming to radiate from every inch of his body, he had a feeling that point was closer than he cared to admit. It wasn’t the death he’d imagined, not after everything they had endured over the years, the missions that had gone awry and left them teetering on the edge of survival. He’d envisioned blood and destruction certainly, but not this slow wearing away of his body, mind and soul at the hands of honourless men, who demanded answers but seemed to delight in not having them. Or maybe that was a game, a ploy to get him to break and give them what they wanted? Had they turned him into the weapon of his own destruction?

His head aches, confusion settling over him like a fog. It’s hard to focus, to make sense of his own thoughts, let alone anything else, and everything hurts, an agony that spreads and grows like a fire that’s been fed fresh fuel. He wants it to end, but not here, not alone, and there’s a noise building in the back of his throat. Somewhere between a groan and a sob, and he presses his lips together, refusing to let even that much pass his lips, but it’s like trying to hold back the tide, and it escapes despite his best effort, deafening in the silence. A fresh bolt of pain in his aching head and he feels hot and cold at once, dampness on his cheeks telling him that it is not only his voice that has betrayed him.

There’s no one there. At any other point, that noise and the tears that are now falling steadily would have brought a flurry of warmth and soothing touches, instead, he shivers and feels nothing but the burn of his wounds, and the bite of metal on tortured flesh. He’s alone, and the stark reminder of that fact erodes what little control he’s clinging to, and he lets himself splinter and break, if only just for a moment.

Bowing his head in the face of the inevitable as a sob escaped.

*

He must’ve passed out at some point because he starts awake to the distant sound of a disturbance. It’s too muffled, and his mind too addled to make sense of, but when he peers at the window, it seems to him that the darkness is not as deep as before. A tinge of orange softening it. Fire? There’s a fleeting burst of fear at the thought because he’s trapped here and he doubts his captors care enough for his answers to rescue him, but on the heels of the fear, comes longing as shivers wrack him again. Fire means warmth and light, and he’s tired of this darkness, even though light aggravates his head. It also conjures memories of happier times, of nights by campfires surrounded by the others, of laughter, of quiet, of worry and anger, but never loneliness like that which has gnawed at him in the quiet moments of his captivity.

He wants to see, and forgetting himself he tries to move, even makes it momentarily to his knees before it feels like his body is alight. There’s a fire in his ribs, not one that warms, but one that makes him burn cold, breath hitching and catching, and he chokes on it. Chokes on the groan that rises as he lists to the side, pulling on the chains, feeling them bite ever deeper into his arms, and he’s bleeding, he can feel it now, on his wrists, trickling down behind him. But he can’t catch himself, can’t breathe, and the ground is unforgiving as he lands heavily on his side, arms wrenched awkwardly and agonisingly behind him, and something shifts in his side, in his chest and he screams. An awful garbled noise that tastes of blood and bile and is far louder in his pounding head, than he thinks it is in reality, and it echoes, driving away everything else as it twists into a roaring sound that fills his head.

He’s dying, or he hopes he is, because there is a plea on the tip of his tongue, and he fears what that could become even more than he wants to escape the agony.

He misses the sounds moving closer, rushing footsteps coming to a halt behind the heavy door. Deaf to familiar voices calling his name amidst cursing that would make a sailor blush, unaware of anything until the sound of the door scraping open breaks through the fog that grips him. Terror and shame, and a thousand emotions in between grip him as the sound registers, because he’s breaking, coming apart at the seams and he doesn’t trust himself anymore. He can’t speak. He mustn’t speak, but he wants it to end. Needs it to stop, because he’s dying and he can’t breathe, and there’s blood on his arms and on his tongue _. His tongue_. It’s like a bolt of lightning amongst the roaring thunder in his ears, and choking on something that could have been a plea or a groan, he bites down, determined to silence himself if nothing else.

“Athos?!” He hears his name, something he hasn’t heard in days – a prisoner doesn’t deserve the courtesy of a name – and there’s something about the voice that brings a pang to his heart, but he can’t trust it, can’t make sense of anything other than the fact that he has to remain silent.

There are other voices, alarmed he thinks, and then there are hands on him. On his shoulders, on his cheeks and he can feel tears on his cheeks again, as everything burns at the touch and he clenches his teeth tighter on his tongue, desperate. “ATHOS!” The shout right next to him makes him flinch, head pounding in protest, but it’s forgotten as he feels fingers on his lips, forcing his mouth open, pressing on his gums and trying to force him to stop biting down. “Athos! Stop! Stop! It’s us! We’re here, you’re safe!”

It’s not the words that stop him, even though his heart as treacherous as it leaps at them, not caring that they might be a trick. No, it’s the tone, the sheer terror and desperation that resonates with his own that gives him pause, and that hesitation that is all that is needed, and the fingers have his jaw open, freeing his tongue, and he gags on the blood in his mouth, on the agony of the gentlest brush of fingers against his abused tongue. “God, Athos what were you thinking?” The voice is softer now, still desperate, and almost as broken as Athos feels and that familiarity is tugging at him, a siren call that he’s not strong enough to resist. It takes him a moment to coax open his good eye, and it feels like a cruel trick as light seers his sensitive eye, vision turning orange, then white before he closes it with a noise that he knows can only be called a whimper. There’s another flurry of voices, whispers this time, as though they’ve realised that the sound hurts too. Then there’s a gentle touch on his cheek, just beneath the cut that had been left there earlier. “Try again.”

Athos doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to see what cruel trick has been conjured up to tip him over the edge before death can steal him away, but he doesn’t have it in him to deny that whispered plea. It takes longer to get his eye open again, fear as much as pain slowing him, and it still hurts, but the light is dimmer, casting the room and the people around him in shadow. Or maybe that’s his vision because while he’s not seeing double or triple, there’s a haziness to everything that he knows is a bad sign. Still, he tries to focus, wants to face whatever this is as best he can as he falls apart, refuses to listen to the tiny voice that whispers of hope in the back of his mind. There’s three of them, he thinks, trying to discern between real shadows and blurred vision, two are further back, and there’s one looming right in front of him. The owner of the fingers still stroking his cheek with a tenderness that he fears, and who is finally removing the one from his mouth, although his touch lingers on Athos’ chin, so light he might be imagining it. “Athos, are you with us?”

There’s his name again. He hadn’t realised how much had been stripped away from him with the refusal to use his name until he hears it again, and he chokes on a sob and hears it echoed by a curse somewhere off to the side. However, he can’t take his gaze off the person in front of him. A man. That throws him into doubt because it’s men that have done this to him, that seek to break him. But they hadn’t used his name, they hadn’t touched him with such gentleness – and he can tell it’s meant to be gentle, even though each brush of those fingers hurts. “Athos?” It’s more insistent this time, a command as well as a plea, and that’s even more familiar than the rest, and he blinks and blinks again, trying to bring him into focus. It takes him longer than he likes, but the man’s face, half-shadowed from the dim light swims into view, worried eyes meeting his own, over a desperate hoping smile that seems at odds with the concerned expression.

“Ar…” He gasps, unable to finish the word, his tongue aflame from the abuse he had inflicted, and he gags and gasps on the blood that wells up in response to his attempt to speak. And it is Aramis, worried and furious, and gentle as he hushes Athos.

“We’ve got you,” Aramis murmurs, and Athos almost shatters there and then, those simple words threatening to do what all the torture and threats hadn’t been able to do, because he’s not alone anymore. He wants to reach out and wrap his hands around Aramis’ wrists and hold him there, terrified of being left alone again, he wants to squeeze and draw him close so he can say his farewells, but he’s still bound. His voice has failed him, and his eyes are burning again, and the tears are falling again, and he can’t stop them. Doesn’t even try, just blinks up at Aramis, helpless, hurting and despairing even with them so close.

Because they’re all there, an urgent conversation that he can’t quite follow happening over his head and then there’s movement behind him, and while he tries not to flinch, the memories of pain, of fists and boots are too close to the surface. It hurts, igniting every one of his injuries at once and he groans. Aramis is cradling his face, trying to focus and distract him all at once, and there’s another hand now, resting on his shoulder briefly and squeezing, warm and grounding. “Easy.” It’s Porthos, and while there is anger in his voice, Athos settles, sensing that the fury isn’t directed him and trusting, knowing the other man would never hurt him, and he nods. A tiny movement that most people would miss, but not these three, and Porthos hand disappears, and Athos feels the chains moving, digging in, his protest silenced by the sound of metal on metal, belatedly realising that Porthos is working to free him.

Movement distracts him, pulling him away from the pain, although he knows it’s written across his face because each movement that Porthos makes sends pain lancing down his arms and his hand is burning, bones shifting and grating. D’Artagnan is there too, crouching next to Aramis now as he removes his cloak. While he looks pale and worried, his hands are steady as he drapes the material over Athos as best he can without obstructing Porthos’ work of putting pressure on Athos’ wounds. Athos blinks at him, the closest he can come to expressing his gratitude because it’s like a candle flame in the face of the chill gripping him now, but it’s more than he’s had for days, and he wants to curl into it. To lose himself in the warmth they’ve brought with them.

The moment is broken by Porthos cursing loudly behind him, and he winces, even as he guesses that the other man has seen the state of his hand and he squeezes his eye shut as Aramis moves to see what has upset Porthos. Aramis doesn’t curse, but the cold fury in his voice is somehow worse and more terrifying. “What have they done to you?” It promises pain and vengeance and all Athos can do is tremble and shake his head, the words beyond him, and he’s spared from needing to say anything by the clink of the locks falling open on the chains and Porthos’ soft noise of triumph. “This is going to hurt,” Aramis’ voice has softened again, although there’s a lingering edge of steel to his words, the rage held back but not forgotten. Athos isn’t sure what he means, but he trusts them. Trusts them more than he trusts himself at the moment, so he makes a noise in his throat that he hopes will pass for agreement.

There’s a pause, and then there are hands on his arms, and abruptly he realises what Aramis means, a broken cry escaping as he feels them starting to ease the chains away from his arms, and in places out of the flesh itself. It hurts, and he tries to move away, to escape this fresh torment. But D’Artagnan is there without a word from the others, hands on his shoulders, holding him in place even as his hands tremble. However, his voice is steady and soft as he starts to talk, trying to distract him from what the others are doing. Athos can’t follow the words, isn’t even sure if there is anything to make sense of or if it’s just random words, but he listens to the rise and fall of the younger man’s face, losing himself in the softness, the familiarity, a far cry from the harsh voices and cruel words of his captors.

It seems to take forever, and his breathing is ragged, and unconsciousness is a tempting promise hovering just out of reach by the time he feels the last link pulled free, and he is limp with agony as he hears Porthos toss the chains aside with a growl of disgust. Despite dreaming of this moment, Athos lacked the strength to move his arms, just laying there, grounded only by the hands on his shoulder and the cool of the floor beneath him, eye half-open. It’s Aramis, whispering an apology and a warning in his ear, who eventually reaches out to move them and Athos understands why too late. Clamping his lips shut on a cry as Aramis slowly, gently pulls his arms back to his side, Porthos helping D’Artagnan to move him onto his back, head nestled in Porthos’ lap so that his arms can be laid out at his side. The muscles are screaming in protest, movement fresh torture after being stuck in one position so long, and it’s too much on top of everything else. Athos has a fleeting glimpse of the three of them leaning over him in alarm before the darkness claims him, bringing with it blessed escape from the agony.

****

He’s warm when he wakes again, and that almost undoes him, and it takes him a moment to release that he’s covered in a cloak, maybe more than one, and his head is resting on something warm and moving, and there are fingers in his hair, smoothing it back.

“I think he’s awake…” That’s Porthos’ voice, and it seems to rumble through him, and it dawns on him that he must be resting in the other man’s lap, but how? They weren’t here. He was alone and dying, and he had wanted to say farewell…was this a conjuration of his deteriorating mind? Was his mind that cruel? The fingers paused, and he couldn’t bring himself to open his eye, terrified that he would find that it was an illusion, but then they moved, coming to rest against his cheek. He knew that sensation, and despite himself, he opened his eye, as memory stirred, almost weeping again as he found himself staring through a blurry eye at Porthos who was leaning over him, offering him a strained smile. “There you are.”

“Athos,” Aramis was there a second later, looking more relieved than Athos had seen him in a long time. He wondered what had happened to make him look like that, especially when he realised there was a tension to Porthos’ expression too and he opened his mouth to ask, only to find himself being hushed. “Don’t speak,” Aramis ordered, albeit in a soft voice. “You did some damage earlier, and I don’t want your tongue to start bleeding again.” That confuses Athos for a moment, and he frowns, and he senses more than sees Aramis and Porthos sharing a worried look over his head before his mind connects the dots and he remembers his desperate attempts to silence himself, and he nods slightly to show that he understands. Aramis’ expression evens out a little, although his eyes are still worried as he meets Athos’ gaze. “I have no idea what possessed you to that, and we will be having words about that when you are well enough to talk.” It’s a threat and a promise, and it feels so familiar and safe after everything that Athos’s lips quirk just for a second, the ghost of a ghost of a smile, but enough to ease Aramis’ smile.

Above him, Porthos huffs a laugh, and Athos blinks, realising that there’s one missing and he looks around as much as he is able, which isn’t much, as Porthos promptly moves to hold his head in place, but not before he is reminded of the pounding headache. “Stop moving,” it is a command, softened by the fingers brushing through his hair again.

“D’Artagnan is watching the corridor. We have the Spanish distracted, but just in case they come back in this direction…” Aramis is the one to realise what he had been looking for, but his words send a jolt of alarm through Athos, he can’t be found again, they can’t be caught here, and the fear must show in his expression because Aramis has hold of his wrists even though he can’t remember moving his arms. “They will not lay a hand on you again, I promise you, but we can’t move you just yet.” Athos shakes his head, quivering and trying to pull free, but Aramis and Porthos are unrelenting, and unlike him, they are well-rested and uninjured, and he might as well have been throwing himself at a brick wall for all the good it does him. His surrender when it comes is reluctant but inevitable, and he’s breathing heavily, feeling each breath burn deep in his chest as what little strength he had bled away.

Aramis holds his wrists for a moment longer, checking that it’s not a trick, and Athos is almost flattered that they think he has that much left in him, blinking exhaustedly up at him. Eventually, Aramis seems to decide he won’t fight and gently sets his arms down once more. For the first time, Athos realises that his arms are heavily bandaged, hiding the damage that he knows the restraints had inflicted and he blinks again. Just how long had he been out? “I’ve bandaged your arms and ribs, although some of the cuts on your arm will require stitches once we’re out of here, but you won’t bleed out,” Aramis explains, meeting his gaze. “I need to splint your fingers, and I don’t want to wait to do that, but it is going to be painful.”

Athos nods, trembling, because of all his injuries that is the one that he fears the worse, and he hates that he doesn’t have the voice to ask whether he will wield a sword again, even as part of him is relieved that he doesn’t need to hear the answer. “I also want to check this eye,” Aramis fingers skim his cheek just under his eye, and Athos’ breath catches, and this time he shakes his head. “Athos,” Aramis pleads, and Athos tries to glare at him, but his heart isn’t in it, and instead he relents, cautiously, fearfully trying to open the eye in question. It hurts, the swelling throbbing from his efforts, but he manages to crack it open and is promptly rewarded with the dizzying sight of three Aramis’ dancing in front of him. It’s too much, and he’s reeling, a roaring flooding his ears once more where there’s a burst of light, and D’Artagnan’s voice rises above the white noise, deafening in its alarm.

“We’ve got company!”


	2. Chapter 2

Athos is reasonably sure that Aramis has just exhausted every curse word he knows in the seconds that had followed D’Artagnan’s warning. However, he can’t be certain because he’s still reeling, and the world is somewhat out of focus around him and filled with far too many of his friends. His stomach doesn’t appreciate that fact, and he closes his eyes and tries to focus on breathing, not wanting to throw up, and abandoning all pretence of trying to make sense of the hurried conversation above him. Beneath it all there growing knot of fear, because he can hear movement in the distance now, and he knows that they are coming for him, just as he knows that the others will not abandon him. He shudders at that knowledge, quivering at the mere thought of any of the others being subjected to the same treatment he has endured.

“You...” He tries to speak, remembers Aramis’ warning too late as his tongue flares with pain, silencing him after a single word. It doesn’t matter, because there are hands on his cheeks, fingers warm against his skin, and he dares to open his left eye and peer up at Aramis.

“We are not leaving you behind,” Aramis informs him the moment that their eyes meet, and he sounds almost offended by the very thought of it, and at any other time, Athos would have smiled at the tone, at the promise in those words. But not today, not when he is still breaking, and knows that they are in danger because of him, and he opens his mouth, determined to say as much, no matter how much it hurts. Before he can try there is an angry growl from behind him, the lap that is serving as his pillow vibrating with the force of it, and his vision fills with Porthos who is scowling and who makes no attempt to soften his words or voice.

“Enough, you can listen to the three of us for once…” His touch, warm and gentle on his shoulders betray the fact that he’s more worried than angry. Athos blinks up at him, despairing and relieved in equal measure because he doesn’t want to be left behind as much as he wants them to be far away from him and what will happen to them if this rescue fails.

“I wouldn’t argue with him,” Aramis takes over. “He will just carry you out of here anyway, and grumble about it.”

“Now that’s agreed, can we move?” D’Artagnan demands, moving back to the door and drawing his blade, head tilted to the side as he focuses on the sound of approaching footsteps. “I, for one, don’t fancy testing their hospitality.” He tries to sound light-hearted, but it falls flat as he glances back at Athos with dark eyes, and for the first time, Athos wonders just what kind of sight he makes at the moment. A pitiful one, he decides, which is an unpleasant thought, but as with most things at the moment, there is little that he can do about it, and instead, he blinks up at Aramis and Porthos, unsure of what they are planning.

“I don’t have time to splint your hand,” Aramis is all business again, and Athos frowns, knows that could be a problem although he doesn’t argue with the statement, as even as dazed as he is, he knows that time is not on their side. “I am going to immobilise your arm as much as possible to try and protect it, but the rest will have to wait until we are out of here. I’m sorry.” Athos dares shake his head, relieved when it doesn’t produce any extra Aramis’ because the last thing he needs from these three are apologies.

They came for him, that’s all that matters.

He almost changes his mind when he finds himself being guided into a sitting position. Porthos warm and solid at his back, and comes very close to saying as much as Aramis quickly but gently, uses his sash to bind his arm against his body. Even that touch, meant to help, sends pain lancing up and down the length of his arm and Athos carefully keeps his gaze away from the hand, not wanting to see the fingers that burn as they brush his front, the bones that shift and feel wrong as he tries to breathe through it. There’s another whispered apology, and a brush of lips against his forehead, and then Aramis and Porthos are on either side of him, arms moving to loop around him.

“I can walk,” he says, or hopes he does, feeling the words slur around a tongue that aches and throbs, and feels far too large for his mouth. He’s not sure if it came out right though, so he tries to push himself upright, not liking how badly his legs quiver beneath him, pains he hadn’t been aware of making themselves know. Had they hurt him there? Or had his position, barely able to stand let alone move around to stretch around taken a toll all of its own? Possibly both, and he glares down at his legs as he is forced to lean on his friends, a groan rising deep in his throat and there’s an exasperated noise from beside him.

“Athos…” He lifts his head, stubborn despite the dizziness that sweeps over him at the movement, and he’s rapidly doubting his own words and hopes that it doesn’t show on his face. Somehow, he is less than convinced by his success as he finds Aramis staring at him, fond and exasperated all at once. “You…” Whatever he is about to say is lost as D’Artagnan hisses an even more urgent warning from the doorway, and now the footsteps are far too close. And Athos can’t help the tremor that wracks him as he hears a familiar voice raised above the others, barking orders. “We don’t have time to argue. Porthos stay with him.” There’s a rumble of assent, or at least Athos assumes that’s what it is, and then Aramis is striding away from them to join D’Artagnan and beckoning them to follow, and Porthos’ arm is firm at his back, supporting him and ready to catch him if he can’t walk.

The first step makes him doubt himself, it hurts, he hurts, everything hurts, and for one terrifying moment he expects to fall, even though he knows that Porthos won’t let him. He can’t stop the pained gasp from slipping out, and Porthos’ fingers tighten in readiness, but he doesn’t fall, and one step becomes two, and then three and four, and they’re at the door too. The noise of the approaching Spanish washing over them louder than ever and his heart beats faster in his chest.

“Move, move,” D’Artagnan orders and leads the way, and normally that would have raised an eyebrow, but Athos can’t focus on anything other than putting one foot in front of the other, and trying to remain quiet as they slink out of the room that has been his prison for so long. He can feel their eyes on him as he moves, and despite everything, it’s a comforting weight to bear, a reminder that he’s not alone, as though he could forget it with Porthos pressed so close, not relinquishing his grip in the slightest.

They make it to the end of the corridor, and distantly he wonders at the fact that they seem to know where they are going. However, that is a question for later, when breathing no longer burns and his vision isn’t blurring at the edges, his head hanging low, as he focuses everything he has on moving forward, trusting the others to guide him. They’re turning the corner when there’s a shout behind them, and Athos flinches, frozen in remembered pain and fear as the General’s voice lashes out like a whip. He can’t make out the words, the roaring in his ears returning once more, but the tone says its all, a promise of pain, or worse, and he feels rather than hears Porthos saying something before he’s pulled around the corner.

They’re moving faster now, and Athos is all but dragged along, a leaf in a relentless breeze and Porthos’ arm around him is his only lifeline, guiding him, supporting him. He’s adrift, surrounded on all sides by pain and swirling darkness, and he’s fairly sure he’s making noises now, and no matter how firmly he presses his lips together they won’t stop.

It hurts. It burns.

Stairs, he discovers are a whole different form of torture, and there is no way to soften it, and they can’t slow down because shots are being fired now, and he hears someone – possibly Aramis – curse as part of the wall crumbles as a shot hits it right next to his head. “Stop….” He tries to say, to beg, but he’s not sure if the plea makes it past his swollen tongue, or whether it’s lost amongst the low groans he can’t hold back. “Please, stop….” If the others hear him, they’re not listening. When Athos tries to stop, legs threatening to collapse completely beneath him, he finds himself being hefted into the air, forcing a strangled cry from him as his ribs scream in protest at the new position. He’s clawing at the arms holding him now, pleading in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to do with his tormentors.

Porthos is talking to him, voice low and breath warm against his ear, but he can’t hear the words, doesn’t want to, because everything hurts, and everything is swirling together, and Porthos isn’t letting go. Is tightening his hold in fact, and Athos sobs, because some part of him knows that they’re trying to help him, that they can’t stop, pursuit close on their heels and yet he just wants it all to stop. Longs for the release of unconsciousness, but although his vision is blurred, and darker than anything now, he remains stubbornly, painfully aware.

Then they’re finally off the steps, and Porthos’ pace evens out, and Athos abandons his struggles, realising he’s not getting out of this and lacking the strength to keep trying. Besides, it doesn’t hurt as much anymore, and he’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not, but he doesn’t care, closing his eye and sagging into Porthos, even as more shouts ring out, followed by shots that sound and feel too close. Far too close, and Athos waits for the pain to follow, barely breathing as he waits for Porthos to grunt and fall, and it takes him too long to realise, that Porthos is still moving, that Aramis and D’Artagnan’s voices are behind them now. More shots fired. Covering them, before chasing after them, their voices his only anchor in the confusion.

“The door!” Porthos’ voice, low and urgent, is the first thing that makes any sense over the roaring in his ears, and Athos frowns, not understanding. Until he feels someone brush past them, realising belatedly that the words had not been meant for him. Still, it’s enough to coax his eye open, Porthos swimming into view above him, jaw set and eyes focused ahead, determination radiating from him. Then Porthos seems to sense his gaze, glancing down at him, and his expression softens just a little bit. “Just hold on a little longer,” he says, as though Athos has any choice in the matter, but there’s a plea in those words that demand an answer and Athos blinks up at him, the closest he can come to an agreement even as a part of him screams in denial. Still wanting this to end, one way or another.

There’s a screech of metal ahead, and then a rush of cold air that bites deeply against Athos’ trembling form, and then they’re outside, and the sky that had mocked him through the bars for so long is there above him. The tears this time are quieter, softer, grieving for the freedom that had been denied him, celebrating its return, however brief it might be as he hears their pursuers drawing closer behind them. The thought of losing this hurts worse than any word, and he’s reaching for Porthos again, squeezing his arm, soft and desperate. _Please…_ Porthos looks down, opens his mouth to soothe him, and Athos isn’t sure which of them is more surprised when instead Porthos grunts in pain and stumbles forward as though struck, and there’s something other than tears on Athos’ face, something damp and warm. He glimpses the burst of crimson on Porthos’ shoulder a split second before they’re tumbling forward.

“ATHOS! PORTHOS!”

He can hear the others shouting for them, but the world has narrowed to Porthos, the blood and the terrifying realisation that they are far too close to the edge of the wall, their path having carried them to the ramparts. He’s dead weight, all but useless at this point, and he throws off Porthos’ balance as another shot rings out and the other man jerks hard, although Athos can’t tell if it’s a response to being hit or anticipation of it, and then they’re really falling. Or rather Porthos is falling, because even now the other man is trying to protect him, using the split second he has to fling Athos away from him, towards the safety of the rampart.

The impact drives the breath from his lungs, along with a strangled shriek, and Athos is certain that if his ribs weren’t broken before they certainly are now. However, even that pales in comparison to the feel of his broken hand being crushed beneath his weight and the cold, hard stone of the ground. However, it’s the pain in his shoulder that threatens to undo him. Because he hadn’t let go. Some desperate instinct having made him fling his unbound arm out, fingers hooking around Porthos’ wrist just before he passed out of reach, and now he’s sprawled across the rampart. Caught on the edge, his trembling arm the only thing stopping Porthos from plummeting to the ground below.

“Athos!” Aramis is there, but Athos couldn’t speak even if he wanted to, because it’s taking everything he has to hold onto Porthos and he doesn’t dare let his attention waver for a second. Breathing shallowly around the agony of it, as his shoulder screams in protest. Porthos is heavy, and gravity is not their friend, but Athos cannot and will not let go. Every bit as certain of that as he had been about holding his silence, just as it all hinges of his body holding out, the fracture lines holding up just a little longer. Mercifully, Aramis seems to realise he can’t talk right then because he’s moving to the edge and peering over. “Porthos?! Porthos?!”

“I’m all right…” Porthos’ answer is faint, and Athos almost misses it over his own ragged breathing and pounding heart, but he sees Aramis relax minutely. “I think…” He catches the second bit, hears the hitch of pain in Porthos’ voice and remembers the shots. Apparently,, Aramis notices too because he’s tense, eyes darting between whatever he can see over the edge and Athos. “Athos…”

“Working on it!” Aramis calls back, strained in a way that Athos has never heard him before, especially as there’s a clamour behind them, and the sound of swords clashing. _D’Artagnan,_ he thinks, but he can’t look, and there’s ice in his veins as he realises that they’re not getting out of this, because his strength is fading, ebbing away far too quickly, and he feels Porthos slip a little before he tightens his grip. Refusing to give in to the demand from his shoulder to let go, as a noise like that of a wounded animal builds and builds, and escapes and he can practically feel Porthos stiffen beneath him.

“Please, tell me he’s not…”

“I can’t tell you that,” Aramis snaps, temper slipping as he moves forward and Athos is losing focus now because everything is breaking. His ribs caught in a wildfire and turning each breath into an exercise in agony, nausea rising, as it throbs in tangent with his trapped arm, his hand fire feeling like fire and ice where it’s caught beneath him, and his shoulder… Its protests have become a howl, and he’s trembling, knowing that he can’t hold out much longer and that he can’t let go.

He won’t let go, no matter what.

Porthos is shouting again, but Athos can’t hear him, because at that moment something in his shoulder shifts and he has a split second to realise that it’s dislocated, wrenched out of place by the deadweight that he can’t let go of before the pain strikes. This is no burning agony. It’s a flash of lightning, bold and bright and overwhelming and Athos screams, the sound torn from him before he can even consider trying to hold it back and his grip on Porthos almost breaks. He tastes blood again as he tightens his grip, writhing against the ground as he fights to hold.

“Athos! ATHOS!” There’s a touch to his shoulder, and the pain almost cripples him, and he’s sure that he must cry out again because the touch disappears and there’s cursing, and Aramis is leaning closer, voice urgent but the words are lost. “…go, Athos! You need to let go!” Athos can’t talk, can’t shake his head, but his grip tightens in response. He can’t let go. Porthos had come for him, to let him go now, to lose him…

There are fingers on his face now, trying to get his attention, but Athos can’t focus on anything but the pain, and his wavering, waning grip on Porthos.

“ATHOS!” Aramis taps his cheek, catching the cut the General had given him, and the sudden pain, a pinprick against the agony he’s in drags Athos’ attention to him. “It’s okay, let him go, he’s above the stables!” The words come in a rush, and Athos struggles to make sense of them, and he’s sure that it’s a lie, a trick to make him release Porthos and to stop him being burdened with guilt, and he shakes his head. “Athos look at me.” It’s rare that any of them take that particular tone with him, and it demands his attention and obedience, and somehow he tilts his head to peer at Aramis. “He’s safe, you can let go,” Aramis repeats, firmly holding his gaze, and there’s no hint of a lie in his words or expression. _Porthos is safe?_ Athos wants to believe him, needs to believe him, because his grip is slipping, strength failing him. Then Aramis’ fingers are against his as the other man leans over the edge, calling something down to Porthos, before slowly, gently forcing Athos to release his death grip.

Porthos’ weight disappears and Athos sobs with the relief and terror of it, can’t breathe as he waits, and it seems to take a lifetime but is more likely only seconds before a familiar, welcome voice drifts up from below. “Hurry up!” Porthos sounds breathless and in pain, but alive and worried, and Athos releases a breath and closes his eyes, limp against the ground. He hopes they don’t expect him to move again, as he feels drained of everything, fragile and brittle enough to shatter at the slightest breeze.

“D’Artagnan!” Aramis is still holding his hand, an anchor to stop him from being swept away, and maybe he realises that Athos is done because he squeezes but doesn’t demand anything.

D’Artagnan is there in seconds breathing heavily, and Athos tries to open his eye to check on him, worried that he is hurt too, but his body refuses to cooperate. He’s conscious but useless. “I’ve barricaded it for now, but it’s not going to last long, and there are other ways up here,” D’Artagnan says, low and urgent. “Athos…”

“He’s fine.” Anyone unfamiliar with Aramis would believe the nonchalant tone, but D’Artagnan knows better than now, and Athos would laugh he could because he had never felt further than fine. “And Porthos has found a way down for us.”

“I’d say it found him,” D’Artagnan retorts, and Athos is bemused to recognise his own tone in those words. Apparently, Aramis has noticed too, because the huff that follows is one that is usually reserved for Athos alone, and his voice is pained when he continues.

“Regardless,” Athos wishes he could open his eye, and see Aramis’ expression, can perfectly picture the frustrated impatience. “We have a way out of here, and not much time. You’re going to need to go first so that you can help Porthos take Athos because there’s no way he can lower himself down.”

“What about you?”

“I’ve neither been shot nor tortured for days, a short drop is not going to kill me,” Aramis replies, and Athos decides he doesn’t like that answer. Neither does D’Artagnan apparently, because his silence lasts a little too long, and he’s shifting uneasily, as though ready to launch a protest. He isn’t given time to do so, because there is a shuddering thud somewhere nearby and Athos hears them both suck in a sharp breath. “Hurry,” Aramis orders, and this time there is no argument, and Athos hears D’Artagnan move away, and then the sound of something heavy landing on wood below them and the murmur of voices.

“We’re ready for him!” It’s Porthos who calls up.

“Athos,” Aramis’ voice is tender, none of his previous impatience anywhere to be seen now, as he squeezes Athos’ hand once more before releasing it. “This is going to hurt, more than I can imagine, but it’s the only way so you must bear with it and trust us. I promise this is nearly over.” He’s pleading, entreating, asking Athos to trust him, to trust them, and the thing is Athos does, more than anyone else, but he’s done. Everything hurts, and his mind is fading, circling around a cavernous hole that is waiting to devour him. “Athos, please, I need to know you understand.” He doesn’t want to reply, not sure that he even can but there is a desperation to that request that can’t be ignored, and Athos shifts just enough to tilt his head towards his friend.

“Go…” He breathes, a whisper of sound that is almost lost, and for a moment he thinks that Aramis was not able to hear him because there’s a pause, and then Aramis’ fingers are in his hair, lightly soothing.

“We’re not leaving you,” Aramis murmurs, soft and fierce, and Athos wants to weep because he hears the steel in those words. The determination and he knows that there is nothing that he can say that will sway Aramis when he sounds like that and that the others will follow his lead. “We’re leaving together, or not all,” Aramis continues, and it seems almost cruel because he must know that is the only thing that Athos cannot fight against, that he could never ignore no matter how broken he is. He wants to hate the other man at that moment, but he can’t, because this is Aramis, and the others, urgent voices drifting up from below and he stirs, driven to movement by the warmth in his chest. Hands move to help him sit up, carefully avoid his arms, and when he is upright and barely able to peel his eye open, he is rewarded by a faint smile.

“Aramis…” He breathes, not sure what he wants to say, knowing that his protests will fall on deaf ears, that his pleas can’t be answered right now, and he subsides, but Aramis seems to understand, reaching up to brush tears from his cheeks.

“Thank you,” Aramis says softly before his smile vanishes, and he turns focused. “I need to do something about your shoulder before we move.” There’s another muffled thud behind them, and Aramis’ eyes twitch, but he doesn’t move or look away, and Athos nods because there’s no other choice. Aramis isn’t going to leave without him, and the longer they wait, the more likely it is that they will be captured, tortured, and worse. “This would be easier with help, but we don’t have time.” Athos nods again, and closes his eye, trying to just breathe as he feels Aramis moving his arm, his touch burning like an open flame as he manoeuvred it into the correct position. “Are you still with me?” Athos groaned the only reply he had left. “I’m going to count to three, and then we can…” He doesn’t get to find out what they were going to do, because Aramis hadn’t counted to three, hadn’t even counted to one. Trusting Athos to have been focused on his words as he spoke and pulled sharply, and Athos howls as he feels his shoulder slide back into place and the world, and Aramis disappears entirely in the face of his agony.

He comes back to himself barely a minute later, to find Aramis cradling him against his shoulder, chanting his name under his breath, moans to show he’s back with him. Still, not sure he can do whatever the hell is coming next, but knowing there’s no choice, because there are more shouts and thuds, and Aramis isn’t moving because he’s not. “Athos…”

“I know…” He’s tasting blood again, and he’s not sure if it’s tongue or if he’d bitten his lip when Aramis had manipulated his arm back into place. Presses his head into Aramis for a moment longer, soaking up the offered comfort, before somehow dredging up enough strength to pull away, wavering and unsure what he’s supposed to do now that’s vertical, not sure he can stand or if that’s even the plan.

“Porthos!” Aramis shouts, moving with him to make sure that he doesn’t collapse, and the sudden shout startles Athos and makes him flinch, pain throbbing behind his eyes. Fingers brush his uninjured shoulder in apology and warning. “I’m going to help him down, but you need to catch him.” There’s a reply from down below, and while Athos can’t make out the words, he recognises the tone and knows that it wouldn’t have been anything flattering, the hint of a smirk on Aramis’ face confirming that. “Apparently, getting shot disagrees with him,” he comments seeing Athos looking at him, and Athos jolts, having almost forgotten about that and this time Aramis is holding him back as he tries to rise.

“Porthos…”

“Will you please worry about yourself for once,” Aramis pleads. “Porthos is hurt, but not as badly as you are, his language proves that, and I will patch him up too as soon as we are out of here.” Athos can’t fight against him, he lacks the strength, and there is a lightness to Aramis’ voice that tells him there’s no lie here, and so he subsides, breathing heavily and dizzy once more. “Let’s get you to the edge, all right?” Athos doesn’t reply, but he does what he can to help Aramis move him to the edge of the rampart, certain that he’s more of a burden than anything else, but Aramis doesn’t complain.

The space below looms open and dark, lit by torchlight and now Athos can see flames in the building at the far end of the courtyard and remembers the orange that had touched the sky earlier. Aramis follows his gaze and smirks. “We were rather zealous with our distraction.” _Oh,_ Athos blinking, doesn’t know what to do with that information and instead leans forwards, spies Porthos and D’Artagnan peering back at him. “Are you ready for this?” _No,_ Athos thinks, but he nods as Porthos catches his gaze and opens his arms, clearly readying to catch him, and despite the pain in Porthos’ expression as he moves, and the blood and tattered holes on his sleeve, he’s tall and steady, and Athos trusts him not to let him fall.

There is no painless way to do this, not with his injuries, and he grits his teeth as Aramis wraps his arms around him. Trying his best to avoid his ribs and shoulders, but unable to avoid it completely, and Athos nearly bites his tongue as everything screams at once. There’s a protest and a plea on the tip of his tongue, ready to beg Aramis to stop this, to leave him alone to die here. However, Aramis is unrelenting, and he can hear D’Artagnan and Porthos calling encouragements, and then there is no stone beneath him, and he’s dangling, and it hurts. It hurts as though someone has just taken all his injuries, set them alight, and then re-inflicted them right over the top of the original ones. He can’t breathe through, and his vision that was blurred at best darkens and dims until he’s dangling blind, utterly dependent on Aramis lowering him from above. Then just as Aramis reaches his limit, and the sensation of falling grips him for several terrifying seconds, he feels hands on his ankles and legs, snatching him out of mid-air.

The sensation lingers for a moment longer, and then he’s being lowered and pulled into a warm hug. Porthos pulling him close, and D’Artagnan is there briefly, resting a hand on his uninjured shoulder before moving to help brace Aramis as their fourth drops down with a grunt. “That was further than you let me believe,” Aramis grumbles behind him, and despite everything, Athos smiles into Porthos’ shoulder. Which is the moment, that the door above them on the rampart crashes open.

“Time to move,” D’Artagnan says, and Athos sinks into Porthos, the thought of moving, of enduring anything else too much to bear. Porthos bless his soul, doesn’t try to convince him, doesn’t even ask, lifting him as easily as before, not even grunting even though it must have hurt.

“Hold on, we’re nearly there.” Athos wants to believe them, especially out here under the open sky and with Porthos’ arms around him and Aramis and D’Artagnan moving to flank them, guiding them to the edge of the roof, but he’s truly fading now, and he can do nothing but trust and hope. Drifting in a sea of pain, as he’s gently lowered from Porthos’ arms into someone else’s, Aramis he thinks, as hands soothe him. He hears the others scrambling down just as a shot rings out, and he’s pulled to the side as Aramis – the only one who could make such a colourful bilingual response to the near-miss – moves to shield him.

Then he’s being passed to Porthos once more, recognising the warmth and curling into it, because anything else is beyond him now. D’Artagnan and Aramis are firing back, or he thinks they are, gunshots deafening in his ears, covering their retreat, or whatever this is, because he has no idea what they have planned or where they’re going, lacks the strength or voice to ask. Not that he would be able to make sense of their answer even if he could because he’s not sure which way is up or down anymore. There's noise, gunshots and shouts, and he doesn’t think it’s just his friends that he hears now, and it’s all merging together now, a blur of noise and light and confusion.

Porthos’ arms around him, are the only connection he has to reality now.

An anchor, a rock in the sea of pain that has claimed his body, pulling his mind in all directions. There are horses he thinks, a different noise entering the fray, and someone is talking to him, maybe more than one, and he tries to listen he really does, but it slides in and out without registering. There are fingers on his cheeks, no doubt trying to make him focus, and he opens his eye that he doesn’t remember closing, but his vision is blurred to the point where all he can make out is vague shapes. He thinks that the one in front of him might be Aramis again, but he cannot tell, can only blink and hope that they understand that the only thing he can do is go along with them right now. The fingers curl against his cheek, understanding he thinks. Then the world turns upside down again as he finds himself being lifted, pulled away from Porthos’ warmth as his legs are guided into position on what he belatedly realises is a saddle, feeling movement beneath him.

He panics for a moment because there’s no way he can remain in the saddle alone, but there are hands-on his legs holding him in place, and then Porthos is at swinging himself into the saddle behind him, warm and solid at his back once more. “Easy, I’ve got you, you’re not going to fall,” Porthos soothes, wrapping an arm around his waist, away from his ribs, and Athos sighs slumps. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, but Porthos is there, and he can hear the others, urgent but not too worried, he can tell from their tone even if he can’t quite decipher the words. There’s more shots, and then they’re moving, and he’s loses track of everything as pain washes over him, the world melting to a grey fog that does nothing to shield him from the pain, and his good hand is gripping Porthos’ wrist hard enough to bruise, but there’s no protest as their pace increases.

He has an impression of flames – the distraction, he remembers, and there’s smoke in their air, and something else. Something familiar that sparks a warning in the back of his head, and he’s shifting, feeling Porthos leaning over him even as he does, and then the world erupts around him, and for a moment he thinks they’re going to be caught in the explosion. Tastes smoke and ash, but they’re still moving, sweeping forward and he has a fleeting impression of walls above and around them, the sky disappearing for a moment, and fear claws at him. But then they’re out and picking up speed, and everything is pain and Porthos’ warmth, and relief, and he wants to thank them, wants to tell them what it means that they’d come for him. That they hadn’t let him falter, or leave behind, but his voice is gone, and his awareness is following, and all he can do is squeeze the arm holding him in place as they flee.

Together.


End file.
